Virginity Despoiled

by Charles Brett

  Once he recognised the infestation he'd encircled the grove with McPhail traps – until their price rocketed as others competed for stocks. He improvised, homemade plastic containers with a liquid bait of ammonium salts inside. These attracted the flies. Inspecting the traps daily he was dismayed at the quantities drawn to the smell, entering the bottom to drown. That so many met a premature end provided his only consolation. Every couple of days he refreshed the traps. The quantities of dead refused to diminish. They needed a miracle.

  In contrast, the rest of his groves were infested, as were those of his neighbours. No one could understand. Where had so many flies come from? Had prevention failed? It did not matter. Everyone resigned themselves to losses. These might be total unless they could identify a workable mechanism to separate good olives from bad. A meeting of POPIC produced suggestions. None hinted of practicality to Enrique. Nevertheless, they ploughed on with the desperation of drowning sinners.

  The next gathering of the POPIC group promised new tensions, with the launch of the gathering of information required to make claims under their insurance policies. In previous years the POPIC members' individual insurance had only covered against natural weather disasters like drought, heavy rain and hail. At least this year Inma and Ana's insurance renegotiation provided cover against named pests, including Bactrocera oleae. This was a blessing, and only possible because the region's past history – of avoiding major fly infestation outbreaks – was so good. This made the flies' presence this year all the more puzzling.

  If the POPIC members had some cause for happiness, Ana and Inma wouldn't be pleased, and the insurers even less so. Their claims on the current evidence would be substantial if the general view prevailed that few would deliver much good Extra Virgin Olive Oil this year. Whatever little they did manage would possess costs at least double normal. The claims must reflect this.

  Enrique's heart sank at the prospect of a different clash on the horizon. He and Lili needed to decide how to sell off whatever oil they could make, whether VOO or POO (he shuddered as usual at Lili's ugly acronyms). Lili would insist, for valid cash flow reasons. He feared any sale would end up with the thieves of the olive oil industry, the cowboys who refined poor or even bad oil before repackaging it to present the illusion of a product better than its reality. He hated the thought of people being deluded into buying fake EVOO where all 'natural goodness' had been eliminated.

  Ana had once raised this with him. She likened it to Peter robbing Paul, where the POPIC members were the ones providing the raw material to the cowboys, thus shooting themselves in both feet. His first reaction was to deny her analogy. Yet the insight stuck, gradually penetrating.

  He'd mentioned Ana's reasoning to a couple of others, including Soledad. To his consternation, she concurred without hesitation. To her, unless all quality growers stopped selling VOO and POO to the cowboys, growers reaped their own seeds sown.

  Soledad had pressed on, to rant about what she referred to as 'the tragedy of the commons'. He must have looked perplexed because she explained this occurred when people lacked an incentive to act rationally. Individuals would pursue their own narrow economic interests rather than a broad interest benefiting all. He'd asked for an example. She'd quoted cod-trawlers who overfished, because everybody else did, until all suffered when the Grand Banks and North Sea ran out, with all becoming losers.

  He'd wanted to tell Ana about this conversation during their planned dinner in Madrid to gauge her reaction. He'd been sure she would have been impressed that he'd listened to her. The death of her grandmother had killed that dead. Ana's mother's mortal illness shortly after prevented the re-arrangement of any new date.

  He grimaced. Ana was his weakness. The more she ignored him the more Enrique was drawn to her. Was she now an infatuation?

  Was it coincidence that his childhood friend María was making herself known? He'd had his normal friends' lunch with her. Without thinking, he'd told María that he and Lili were sleeping apart. Had this somehow kick-started María? She was volunteering to visit Úbeda most weekends to aid the fight against the flies. She kept pushing Enrique to explore how such a widespread infestation could emerge from nowhere.

  It was an interesting question. Wrapped up trying to rescue what might be saved he hadn't dwelt on possible causes. Surely it was not poor growing practices? Was this another topic for POPIC?

  The one extraordinary positive about the whole Bactrocera oleae infestation was the way the local area was gathering to support its stricken olive growers. They couldn't do much practical. Nevertheless, Enrique remained amazed at the scale of people's generosity. It restored his faith in his neighbours.

  Madrid

  Inma scrolled through the electronic editions of the newspapers on her tablet, now a morning ritual. From the moment she caught the first hint of olive pests in Andalucía she combed the Internet for updates. She recognised the potential for insurance claims if a pest were to affect the Comarca around Úbeda. She was perplexed by not hearing from POPIC. Hopefully they were immune. Maybe it was only a matter of time.

  At the beginning the pest problem appeared to be minor. A vigilant German amateur grower issued the first warnings from Antequera, 200 kilometres south west of Úbeda. By all accounts a natural pessimist, this German allegedly derived his pleasure from publishing fly statistics on his website. These paraded his daily count. Few took notice. Within a week, Antequera was on full alert, though it was too late to do anything practical.

  Úbeda caught up soon after. Within days the latest generation of fruit flies was disseminating widespread misery in numbers so vast not even the poor-sighted could miss them. Local cooperatives and other bodies attempted to help. As far as Inma could discover it was in vain.

  The current priority lay in deciding how much of the harvest might be saved. She dredged from her memory facts Enrique had related that first weekend in Úbeda. Olives picked for eating must have no eggs inside. They ruined the taste and looked awful when consumed. Enrique and Lili canned few edible olives, thank goodness. In contrast, EVOO production tolerated up to 10 per cent infected olives. Except Enrique had asserted 5 per cent, or as little as 4, degraded the taste to the point where it became unexceptional, and thereby worthless as EVOO.

  The second priority concerned the current fly generation's penetration and whether the growers could prevent or inhibit the next cycle of reproduction. As reported, the omens weren't good.

  Inma shifted mental gears to consider Enrique and Lili. Enrique would suffer for his trees and their fruit. With Lili the agony would concern their finances and her future. Inma squirmed. She lacked the courage to make contact, which must only bring bad news. She berated herself. She ought to act first.

  Her will-power had evaporated. The interrupted weekend with Lili, the death of La Abuela and Ana's mother a week later, left her listless. Add the prolonged funeral, ongoing in the fields around Úbeda, to the two personal ones completed in the last fortnight, and it was too much to absorb.

  The demise of La Abuela wasn't a surprise, neither to herself nor to Ana. Her decline had accelerated. That Saturday evening, after she had hastened from Yuste to Madrid, Inma arrived in the nick of time for La Abuela to conduct a Russian deathbed scene. In her own bed, with the nurse next door, La Abuela had thanked Ana and herself for their love and support before bidding them farewell. After gesturing for them to kiss her, she laid back, closing her eyes. Half an hour later she stopped breathing. La Abuela's exit was peaceful, without fuss. Better to go this way than in a hospital encircled by machines.

  Minutes after, while the nurse was making arrangements and Inma and Ana were consoling each other, Ana's parents burst into the salon. La Abuela was not to depart without their permission. Their reaction on hearing they were too late had been bizarre, even by Ana's parents' lack of standards. They blamed Ana. They blamed Inma. They blamed the nurse. Did they blame their own insistence on staying at a society cocktail event less than half an hour away?
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  The brutal truth, as Inma now knew, was La Abuela had not suggested asking for either. Ana had taken it upon herself, during the time Inma was on the road from Yuste, to inform her parents and her overseas siblings. In retrospect Inma understood La Abuela's reticence, along with Ana's shame.

  If scene-creation was Ana's parents' speciality, the next instalment shook all. Ana's mother collapsed, even though La Abuela was Ana's paternal grandmother. Rushed to hospital in the very ambulance sent to remove La Abuela's remains, Ana's mother died less than a week later despite the ministrations of La Abuela's nurse. There was no clear cause. A broken heart seemed beyond improbability. But died she had.

  This left Ana bereft of mother and grandmother and obliged to support a father whom she liked little. Inma could only observe the despair stalking Ana's face and bearing. That Ana's father in his own misery blamed his daughter didn't help.

  Ana's siblings assembled, descending from the Canaries and South America. They assumed some of the load. The days after La Abuela's death and funeral, followed by Ana's mother's death and funeral, drained everybody. Inma's listlessness evidenced that.

  Right or wrong she'd told Ana to take time off. Inma worried whether this had been sensible. Work might have distracted Ana though it would have meant exposing her to what was happening in Jaén. She did not need the addition of fruit fly anguish as she dealt with her selfish, balky father.

  Tomorrow Ana would return to work. Inma speculated on her mental shape. In all probability, it would be dreadful though seeking any reason to stay away from her father made sense. Perhaps she and Ana should head for Yuste. Ana's father wouldn't invite himself there. At the first funeral, in an inappropriate display of animosity, he'd informed Inma she was a pariah for leaving Opus, which was doubly rich after he had openly despised her in the past for being part of Opus. He was not a nice relative.

  The prospect of Yuste warmed yet unnerved her. However hard she tried Inma couldn't lose the vision of Lili in that dress. She was certain Lili had worn it to impress, though probably not in the way intended. Inma had wrestled with herself that day. She still did, though now accepted she wouldn't have been able to prevent herself from making a pass at Lili. She had been about to when the phone rang. Ana on the other end of the line relayed La Abuela's request for Inma to come. Despite raging lust, undamped, she ran for the X5 and drove like the furies to Madrid. At least she'd been in time for La Abuela's farewell.

  That still left Lili.

  Tallinn

  This year the first signs of winter arrived early in Tallinn. Whereas further south in Spain was warm or hot, light flurries of first snows decorated the air outside the windows of Reval, a cafe chain Oleg liked for its anonymity, comfort and access to Wi-Fi. He sipped his coffee and started his laptop.

  Anonymity came in two forms. Almost everybody in Reval who was not socialising crouched over a computer. The majority were Macs or iPads. Oleg despised Apple and Microsoft, icons of an American hegemony he resented. He shifted. Perhaps Andrei was right, that he was a Soviet antique unable to accept a changed world, like a free Estonia no longer under Russian subjugation.

  First Oleg checked for news about fruit flies and olives in Spain. Because his Spanish wasn't good he relied on Google translations, even if these often produced gibberish fit for the bin. On previous occasions he had searched on 'mosca de la fruta' and 'olivos', reasoning that these were the correct Spanish words. Google produced academic articles more than news. Today he input 'Bactrocera oleae'.

  By using Reval's Wi-Fi he minimised traces of what he investigated. By choosing different Reval cafes each day he further increased his anonymity. That Reval possessed several outlets around Tallinn, most within walking distance of his apartment, meant electronic obscurity.

  Bingo! Articles were featured in the ABC, El Mundo and El País newspapers. Now all he had to do was try to translate. Half an hour later he was delirious. His plan was hatching. The flies were overwhelming Jaén's olive groves. Better still, the pests had reached Antequera and Sevilla.

  Oleg paused. Should he tell Andrei? Perhaps not yet. He clicked on a reference within one of the newspaper articles. This took him to an official-looking website. Only a month before its forecast projected a Spanish harvest of record-breaking proportions. Now it predicted disaster, with production from Andalucía of both Extra Virgin Olive Oil and Virgin Olive Oil dropping precipitously and with questions raised about the quality of any remainder.

  Perfection. His machinations were coming together. He congratulated himself, Andrei and the flies before tracking down the bulk prices of different grades of olive oil. His pleasure grew. The price per ton for this year's Spanish oils was falling. He derived a graph. Yes, it trended downward across all grades. He performed a quick calculation in his head. His options, bought over the past six months for delivery in the spring, had increased in value, and that was before official pessimism was factored into the price. There was time to wait.

  His next task was to resume the email exchange with Gian Luigi who was looking for bulk oil. Oleg knew his intentions. The question was when to sell his existing poor quality oil. Now? He see-sawed, torn between whether to accept the current offer and lock in profits before this year's rubbish oil hit the market or wait. Decided, he set in motion a deal that would release tons of low-grade olive oil to new ownership in Basilicata. He knew Gian Luigi. Within a fortnight that oil would adorn supermarket shelves in Italy, masquerading as Extra Virgin Olive Oil, while being nothing of the sort.

  When payment arrived, along with those other side deals, he would have enough to refund himself and Andrei for their expenses to date. Although he hadn't informed him of these side deals, Andrei wouldn't object to the results. Good, honest, clean euros would transfer from Italy into well-regulated, EU-compliant Estonian banks. This was about as good as it could get.

  He exuded self-congratulation. Pulling out his phone, he invited Andrei for dinner, rather than a gym session. After all, now the nefarious elements of their operation were complete thousands of kilometres away and with their natural pest working hard, they could associate in public. The Tchaikovski for some proper Russian food, he thought to himself.

  Before Andrei could reply a tone on his phone alerted him to an incoming email. He preferred to read it on his laptop. To his surprise it was Kjersti. What a coincidence. He'd been thinking of her. He missed their blistering competition even if his discomfort at being caught starting earlier than promised still made him flinch.

  The email was brief: Forgotten me?

  He had forgotten her. As she had promised, she'd invited him to Northern Norway to train in the mountains. He'd had to decline, being busy sitting in that damnable truck for those long three weeks before returning to Tallinn. Silence followed.

  He emailed No, giving nothing away.

  Fancy running the Saaremaa 50K in two weeks? Up to it?

  Oleg blenched. His training was going well. He'd completed a fast 20K only yesterday but that was on a running machine. Was it worth the injury risk?

  Why Saaremaa?

  Beautiful island, minimal hills. Still autumn, warmed by the surrounding sea. You might even keep up with me.

  Over-fit bitch! But you're probably right. I would beat you. OK. Where would we stay?

  I've a friend in Kuressaare. Pick me up in Tallinn?

  Sounds good. You're on.

  Wonderful! Will send arrival time when booked.

  His phone pinged. Andrei had confirmed their dinner. Everything was coming together. A few more weeks and they would be the owners of oodles of clean money deposited in clean banks for clean enjoyment. In the meantime all he had to do was fine-tune himself for Saaremaa. Oleg promised himself to thrash her, this time on his home ground. Well, Estonia's today though hopefully it would return to Russia one day soon.

  Madrid

  Ana moped, not a favoured activity. She'd done it after Davide disappeared. For the past two weeks, except for the funerals and various fami
ly get-togethers, she'd kept to herself, aided by Inma's generosity. It was past time to restart. La Abuela would have insisted.

  The reading of La Abuela's will produced one surprise. As La Abuela forecast there wasn't much for anybody, even after taking into account the sale of La Abuela's apartment. An old lady's piso demanding total refurbishment, even if in a desirable Madrid neighbourhood, would not bring the mouth-watering valuation her father clutched at.

  Her siblings were content and grateful, unlike her father. She and Inma received a little more for being executors, plus there was one unexpected extra.

  Weeks before, La Abuela had insisted they open a joint account. Mystified, Ana had consented. La Abuela explained it was like the keys to her piso; Ana could buy things for her without having to spend her own money. Giving in, Ana accompanied La Abuela to sign the papers. She'd never had the need to use the account.

  Much became clearer when the lawyer handed her an envelope containing the joint account's savings passbook, with a 10,000 euros credit.

  She read La Abuela's handwritten note inside: To help with legal fees should you decide to pursue the other temptation.

  While La Abuela could not have known her daughter-in-law would die so soon after, she understood Ana was her parents' only child. Her siblings were half-siblings from her father's first marriage, though Ana got on with them well enough. For one thing they had never resented her, despite not welcoming her mother. For a second, most had babysat her at one time or another. This was the source of many evil stories recounted in good humour at her expense. Ana couldn't complain. They were decent people for whom she felt much affection.